the reasons for her opinion. She knew that Ida Gulmore had been in love
with him, so she shrank instinctively from mentioning her name, partly
because it might make him pity her, and partly because the love
of another woman for him seemed to diminish her pride of exclusive
possession. She therefore kept silence while seeking for a way to warn
her lover without revealing the truth, which might set him thinking of
Ida Gulmore and her fascinating because unrequited passion. At length
she said:
“Mr. Gulmore has injured father. He knows him: you'd better take his
opinion.”
“Your father advises me to have nothing more to do with the election.”
He didn't say it to try her; he trusted her completely. The girl's
answer was emphatic:
“Oh, that's what you should do; I'm frightened for you. Why need you
make enemies? The election isn't worth that, indeed it isn't. If father
wants to run for Mayor, let him; he knows what he's about. But you, you
should do great things, write a great book; and make every one as proud
of you as I am.” Her face flushed with enthusiasm. She felt relieved,
too; somehow she had got into the spirit of her part once more. But her
lover took the hot face and eager speech as signs of affection, and he
drew her to him while his face lit up with joy.
“You darling, darling! You overrate me, dear, but that does me good:
makes me work harder. What a pity it is, May, that one can't add a cubit
to his stature. I'd be a giant then.... But never fear; it'll be all
right. You wouldn't wish me, I'm sure, to run away from a conflict I
have provoked; but now I must see my father about those debts, and then
we'll have a drive, or perhaps you'd go with me to him. You could wait
in the buggy for me. You know I have to speak again this evening.”
The girl consented at once, but she was not satisfied with the decision
her lover had come to. “It's too plain,” she thought in her clear,
common-sense way, “that he's getting into a 'fuss' when he might just as
well, or better, keep out of it.”
May was eminently practical, and not at all as emotional as one might
have inferred from the sensitive, quick-changing colour that at one
moment flushed her cheeks and at another ebbed, leaving her pallid, as
with passion. Not that she was hardhearted or selfish. Far from it. But
her surroundings had moulded her as they do women. Her mother had been
one of the belles of Baltimore, a Southerner, too, by temperament. May
had a brother and a sister older than herself (both were now married),
and a younger brother who had taken care that she should not be spoiled
for want of direct personal criticism. It was this younger brother, Joe,
who first called her “Towhead,” and even now he often made disparaging
remarks about “girls who didn't weigh 130”--in Joe's eyes, a Venus of
Rubens would have seemed perfect. May was not vain of her looks; indeed,
she had only come to take pleasure in them of recent years. As a young
girl, comparing herself with her mother, she feared that she would
always be “quite homely.” Her glass and the attentions of men had
gradually shown her the pleasant truth. She did not, however, even now,
overrate her beauty greatly. But her character had been modified
to advantage in those schoolgirl days, when, with bitter tears, she
admitted to herself that she was not pretty. Her teacher's praise of her
quickness and memory had taught her to set her pride on learning. And
indeed she had been an intelligent child, gifted with a sponge-like
faculty of assimilating all kinds of knowledge--the result, perhaps, of
generations of educated forbears. The admiration paid to her looks
did not cause her to relax her intellectual efforts. But when at the
University she found herself outgrowing the ordinary standards of
opinion, conceit at first took possession of her. It seemed to her
manifest that she had always underrated herself. She was astonished by
her own excessive modesty, and keenly interested in it. She had thought
herself ugly and she was beautiful, and now it was evident that she was
a genius as well. With soul mightily uplifted by dreams of all she would
do and the high part she would play in life, always nobly serious, yet
with condescension of exquisite charming kindliness, taking herself
gravely for a perfect product of the race and time, she proceeded to
write the book which should discover to mankind all her qualities--the
delicacy, nobility, and sweetness of an ideal nature.
During this period she even tried to treat Joe with sweet courtesy, but
Joe told her not to make herself “more of a doggoned fool” than she
was. And soon the dream began to lose its brightness. The book would not
advance, and what she wrote did not seem to her wonderful--not inspired
and fascinating as it ought to have been. Her reading had given her some
slight critical insight. She then showed parts of it to her admirers,
hoping thus to justify vanity, but they used the occasion to pay
irrelevant compliments, and so disappointed her--all, save Will
Thornton, who admitted critically that “it was poetic” and guessed “she
ought to write poetry.” Accordingly she wrote some lyrics, and one on
“Vanished Hopes” really pleased her. Forthwith she read it to Will, who
decided “'twas fine, mighty fine. Tennyson had written more, of course,
but nothing better--nothing easier to understand.” That last phrase
killed her trust in him. She sank into despondence. Even when Ida
Gulmore, whom she had learned to dislike, began to outshine her in the
class, she made no effort. To graduate first of her year appeared a
contemptible ambition in comparison with the dreams she had foregone.
About this period she took a new interest in her dress; she grew
coquettish even, and became a greater favourite than ever. Then
Professor Roberts came to the University, and with his coming life
opened itself to her anew, vitalized with hopes and fears. She was drawn
to him from the first, as spirit is sometimes drawn to spirit, by an
attraction so imperious that it frightened her, and she tried to hold
herself away from him. But in her heart she knew that she studied and
read only to win his praise. His talents revealed to her the futility of
her ambition. Here was one who stood upon the heights beyond her power
of climbing, and yet, to her astonishment, he was very doubtful of
his ability to gain enduring reputation. Not only was there a plane of
knowledge and feeling above the conventional--that she had found out by
herself--but there were also table-lands where teachers of repute in the
valley were held to be blind guides. Her quick receptivity absorbed
the new ideas with eagerness; but she no longer deluded herself. Her
practical good sense came to her aid. What seemed difficult or doubtful
to the Professor must, she knew, be for ever impossible to her. And
already love was upon her, making her humility as sweet as was her
admiration. At last he spoke, and life became altogether beautiful to
her. As she learned to know him intimately she began to understand
his unworldliness, his scholar-like idealism, and ignorance of men and
motives, and thus she came to self-possession again, and found her true
mission. She realized with joy, and a delightful sense of an assured
purpose in life, that her faculty of observation and practical insight,
though insufficient as “bases for Eternity,” would be of value to
her lover. And if she now and then fell back into the part of a
nineteenth-century Antigone, it was but a momentary relapse into what
had been for a year or so a dear familiar habit. The heart of the girl
grew and expanded in the belief that her new _rôle_ of counsellor and
worldly guide to her husband was the highest to which any woman could
attain.
A few days later Mr. Hutchings had another confidential talk with
Professor Roberts, and, as before, the subject was suggested by an
article in “The Republican Herald.” This paper, indeed, devoted a column
or so every day to personal criticism of the Professor, and each attack
surpassed its forerunner in virulence of invective. All the young man's
qualities of character came out under this storm of unmerited abuse.
He read everything that his opponents put forth, replied to nothing, in
spite of the continual solicitation of the editor of “The Democrat,”
and seemed very soon to regard “The Herald's” calumnies merely from the
humorous side. Meanwhile his own speeches grew in knowledge and vigour.
With a scholar's precision he put before his hearers the inner history
and significance of job after job. His powers of study helped him to
“get up his cases” with crushing completeness. He quickly realized the
value of catch-words, but his epigrams not being hardened in the fire of
life refused to stick. He did better when he published the balance-sheet
of the “ring” in pamphlet form, and showed that each householder paid
about one hundred and fifty dollars a year, or twice as much as all his
legal taxes, in order to support a party organization the sole object
of which was to enrich a few at the expense of the many. One job, in
especial, the contract for paving the streets, he stigmatized as a
swindle, and asserted that the District Attorney, had he done his duty,
would long ago have brought the Mayor and Town Council before a criminal
court as parties to a notorious fraud. His ability, steadfastness, and
self-restraint had had a very real effect; his meetings were always
crowded, and his hearers were not all Democrats. His courage and
fighting power were beginning to win him general admiration. The public
took a lively though impartial interest in the contest. To critical
outsiders it seemed not unlikely that the Professor (a word of
good-humoured contempt) might “whip” even “old man Gulmore.” Bets were
made on the result and short odds accepted. Even Mr. Hutchings allowed
himself to hope for a favourable issue.
“You've done wonderfully well,” was the burden of his conversations with
Roberts; “I should feel certain of success against any one but Gulmore.
And he seems to be losing his head--his perpetual abuse excites sympathy
with you. If we win I shall owe it mainly to you.”
But on this particular morning Lawyer Hutchings had something to say to
his friend and helper which he did not like to put into plain words. He
began abruptly:
“You've seen the 'Herald'?”
“Yes; there's nothing in it of interest, is there?”
“No; but 'twas foolish of your father to write that letter saying you
had paid his Kentucky debts.”
“I was sorry when I saw it. I know they'll say I got him to write the
letter. But it's only another incident.”
“It's true, then? You did pay the money?”
“Yes; I was glad to.”
“But it was folly. What had you to do with your father's debts? Every
house to-day should stand on its own foundation.”
“I don't agree with you; but in this case there was no question of
that sort. My father very generously impoverished himself to send me
to Europe and keep me there for six years. I owed him the five thousand
dollars, and was only too glad to be able to repay him. You'd have done
the same.”
“Would I, indeed! Five thousand dollars! I'm not so sure of that.” The
father's irritation conquered certain grateful memories of his
younger days, and the admiration which, in his heart, he felt for the
Professor's action, only increased his annoyance. “It must have nearly
cleaned you out?”
“Very nearly.”
“Well, of course it's your affair, not mine; but I think you foolish.
You paid them in full, I suppose? Whew!
“Do you see that the 'Herald' calls upon the University authorities to
take action upon your lecture? 'The teaching of Christian youth by an
Atheist must be stopped,' and so forth.”
“Yes; but they can do nothing. I'm not responsible to them for my
religious opinions.”
“You're mistaken. A vote of the Faculty can discharge you.”
“Impossible! On what grounds?”
“On the ground of immorality. They've got the power in that case. It's a
loose word, but effective.”
“I'd have a cause of action against them.”
“Which you'd be sure to lose. Eleven out of every twelve jurymen in this
state would mulct an Agnostic rather than give him damages.”
“Ah! that's the meaning, then, I suppose, of this notice I've just
got from the secretary to attend a special Faculty meeting on Monday
fortnight.”
“Let me see it. Why, here it is! The object of the meeting is 'To
consider the anti-Christian utterances of Professor Roberts, and to take
action thereon.' That's the challenge. Didn't you read it?”
“No; as soon as I opened it and saw the printed form, I took it for the
usual notification, and put it aside to think of this election work. But
it would seem as if the Faculty intended to out-herald the 'Herald.'”
“They are simply allowed to act first in order that the 'Herald,' a
day later, may applaud them. It's all worked by Gulmore, and I tell you
again, he's dangerous.”
“He may be; but I won't change for abuse, nor yet to keep my post. Let
him do his worst. I've not attacked him hitherto for certain reasons of
my own, nor do I mean to now. But he can't frighten me; he'll find that
out.”
“Well, we'll see. But, at any rate, it was my duty to warn you. It
would be different if I were rich, but, as it is, I can only give May a
little, and--”
“My dear Hutchings, don't let us talk of that. In giving me May, you
give me all I want.” The young man's tone was so conclusive that it
closed the conversation.
* * * * *
Mr. Gulmore had not been trained for a political career. He had begun
life as a clerk in a hardware store in his native town. But in his early
manhood the Abolition agitation had moved him deeply--the colour of his
skin, he felt, would never have made him accept slavery--and he became
known as a man of extreme views. Before he was thirty he had managed to
save some thousands of dollars. He married and emigrated to Columbus,
Ohio, where he set up a business. It was there, in the stirring years
before the war, that he first threw himself into politics; he laboured
indefatigably as an Abolitionist without hope or desire of personal
gain. But the work came to have a fascination for him, and he saw
possibilities in it of pecuniary emolument such as the hardware business
did not afford. When the war was over, and he found himself scarcely
richer than he had been before it began, he sold his store and emigrated
again--this time to Tecumseh, Nebraska, intending to make political
organization the business of his life. He wanted “to grow up” with
a town and become its master from the beginning. As the negroes
constituted the most ignorant and most despised class, a little
solicitation made him their leader. In the first election it was found
that “Gulmore's negroes” voted to a man, and that he thereby controlled
the Republican party. In the second year of his residence in Tecumseh he
got the contract for lighting the town with gas. The contract was to
run for twenty years, and was excessively liberal, for Mr. Gulmore had
practically no competitor, no one who understood gas manufacture, and
who had the money and pluck to embark in the enterprise. He quickly
formed a syndicate, and fulfilled the conditions of the contract. The
capital was fixed at two hundred thousand dollars, and the syndicate
earned a profit of nearly forty per cent, in the first year. Ten years
later a one hundred dollar share was worth a thousand. This first
success was the foundation of Mr. Gulmore's fortune. The income derived
from the gas-works enabled him to spend money on the organization of his
party. The first manager of the works was rewarded with the position of
Town Clerk--an appointment which ran for five years, but which under Mr.
Gulmore's rule was practically permanent. His foremen became the most
energetic of ward-chairmen. He was known to pay well, and to be a kind
if strenuous master. What he had gained in ten years by the various
contracts allotted to him or his nominees no one could guess; he was
certainly very rich. From year to year, too, his control of the city
government had grown more complete. There was now no place in the civil
or judicial establishment of the city or county which did not depend on
his will, and his influence throughout the State was enormous.
A municipal election, or, indeed, any election, afforded Mr. Gulmore
many opportunities of quiet but intense self-satisfaction. He loved
the struggle and the consciousness that from his office-chair he had so
directed his forces that victory was assured. He always allowed a broad
margin in order to cover the unforeseen. Chance, and even ill-luck,
formed a part of his strategy; the sore throat of an eloquent speaker;
the illness of a popular candidate; a storm on polling-day--all were to
him factors in the problem. He reckoned as if his opponents might have
all the luck upon their side; but, while considering the utmost malice
of fortune, it was his delight to base his calculations upon the
probable, and to find them year by year approaching more nearly
to absolute exactitude. As soon as his ward-organization had been
completed, he could estimate the votes of his party within a dozen or
so. His plan was to treat every contest seriously, to bring all his
forces to the poll on every occasion--nothing kept men together, he used
to say, like victory. It was the number of his opponent's minority which
chiefly interested him; but by studying the various elections carefully,
he came to know better than any one the value as a popular candidate of
every politician in the capital, or, indeed, in the State. The talent of
the man for organization lay in his knowledge of men, his fairness and
liberality, and, perhaps, to a certain extent, in the power he possessed
of inspiring others with confidence in himself and his measures. He was
never satisfied till the fittest man in each ward was the Chairman of
the ward; and if money would not buy that particular man's services,
as sometimes though rarely happened, he never rested until he found the
gratification which bound his energy to the cause. Besides--and this was
no small element in his successes--his temper disdained the applause of
the crowd. He had never “run” for any office himself, and was not nearly
so well known to the mass of the electorate as many of his creatures.
The senator, like the mayor or office-messenger of his choice, got
all the glory: Mr. Gulmore was satisfied with winning the victory, and
reaping the fruits of it. He therefore excited, comparatively speaking,
no jealousy; and this, together with the strength of his position,
accounts for the fact that he had never been seriously opposed before
Professor Roberts came upon the scene.
Better far than Lawyer Hutchings, or any one else, Mr. Gulmore knew that
the relative strength of the two parties had altered vastly within the
year. Reckoning up his forces at the beginning of the campaign, he felt
certain that he could win--could carry his whole ticket, including a
rather unpopular Mayor; but the majority in his favour would be small,
and the prospect did not please him, for the Professor's speeches had
aroused envy. He understood that if his majority were not overwhelming
he would be assailed again next year more violently, and must in the
long run inevitably lose his power. Besides, “fat” contracts required
unquestionable supremacy. He began, therefore, by instituting such
a newspaper-attack upon the Professor as he hoped would force him to
abandon the struggle. When this failed, and Mr. Gulmore saw that it had
done worse than fail, that it had increased his opponent's energy and
added to his popularity, he went to work again to consider the whole
situation. He must win and win “big,” that was clear; win too, if
possible, in a way that would show his “smartness” and demonstrate
his adversary's ignorance of the world. His anger had at length been
aroused; personal rivalry was a thing he could not tolerate at any time,
and Roberts had injured his position in the town. He was resolved to
give the young man such a lesson that others would be slow to follow his
example.
The difficulty of the problem was one of its attractions. Again and
again he turned the question over in his mind--How was he to make his
triumph and the Professor's defeat sensational? All the factors were
present to him and he dwelt upon them with intentness. He was a man of
strong intellect; his mind was both large and quick, but its activity,
owing to want of education and to greedy physical desires, had been
limited to the ordinary facts and forces of life. What books are to most
persons gifted with an extraordinary intelligence, his fellow-men
were to Mr. Gulmore--a study at once stimulating and difficult, of
an incomparable variety and complexity. His lack of learning was of
advantage to him in judging most men. Their stock of ideas, sentiments
and desires had been his for years, and if he now viewed the patchwork
quilt of their morality with indulgent contempt, at least he was
familiar with all the constituent shades of it. But he could not make
the Professor out--and this added to his dislike of him; he recognized
that Roberts was not, as he had at first believed, a mere mouthpiece of
Hutchings, but he could not fathom his motives; besides, as he said to
himself, he had no need to; Roberts was plainly a “crank,” book-mad, and
the species did not interest him. But Hutchings he knew well; knew that
like himself Hutchings, while despising ordinary prejudices, was ruled
by ordinary greeds and ambitions. In intellect they were both above
the average, but not in morals. So, by putting himself in the lawyer's
place, a possible solution of the problem occurred to him.
A couple of days before the election, Mr. Hutchings, who had been hard
at work till the evening among his chief subordinates, was making his
way homeward when Mr. Prentiss accosted him, with the request that he
would accompany him to his rooms for a few minutes on a matter of the
utmost importance. Having no good reason for refusing, Mr. Hutchings
followed the editor of the “Herald” up a flight of stairs into a large
and comfortable room. As he entered and looked about him Mr. Gulmore
came forward:
“I wanted a talk with you, Lawyer, where we wouldn't be disturbed, and
Prentiss thought it would be best to have it here, and I guess he was
about right. It's quiet and comfortable. Won't you be seated?”
“Mr. Gulmore!” exclaimed the surprised lawyer stopping short. “I don't
think there's anything to be discussed between us, and as I'm in a hurry
to get home to dinner, I think I'll--”
“Don't you make any mistake,” interrupted Mr. Gulmore; “I mean
business--business that'll pay both you and me, and I guess 'twon't do
you any damage to take a seat and listen to me for a few minutes.”
As Lawyer Hutchings, overborne by the authority of the voice and manner,
sat down, he noticed that Mr. Prentiss had disappeared. Interpreting
rightly the other's glance, Mr. Gulmore began:
“We're alone, Hutchin's. This matter shall be played fair and square.
I guess you know that my word can be taken at its face-value.” Then,
settling himself in his chair, he went on:
“You and I hev been runnin' on opposite tickets for a good many years,
and I've won right along. It has paid me to win and it has not paid you
to lose. Now, it's like this. You reckon that those Irishmen on the line
give you a better show. They do; but not enough to whip me. You appear
to think that that'll have to be tried the day after tomorrow, but you
ought to know by now that when I say a thing is so, it's so--every time.
If you had a chance, I'd tell you: I'm playin' square. I ken carry my
ticket from one end to the other; I ken carry Robinson as Mayor against
you by at least two hundred and fifty of a majority, and the rest of
your ticket has just no show at all--you know that. But, even if you
could get in this year or next what good would it do you to be Mayor?
You're not runnin' for the five thousand dollars a year salary, I
reckon, and that's about all you'd get--unless you worked with me. I
want a good Mayor, a man like you, of position and education, a fine
speaker that knows everybody and is well thought of--popular. Robinson's
not good enough for me; he hain't got the manners nor the knowledge, nor
the popularity. I'd have liked to have had you on my side right along.
It would have been better for both of us, but you were a Democrat, an'
there wasn't any necessity. Now there is. I want to win this election by
a large majority, an' you ken make that sartin. You see I speak square.
Will you join me?”